


XXII

by Crowgirl



Series: Welcoming Silences [26]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: 1943, Awkward Romance, Childhood Memories, Common Cold, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Parent Death, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 18:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5385929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘You’ve had this cold for two days, it’s only getting worse, and we’re doing <i>filing</i> here.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	XXII

Foyle sneezes for the third time in four minutes and Paul is finished. ‘Miss Stewart.’

‘Mr. Milner?’ Sam looks startled; it’s the first time he’s called her by her full name in months. 

‘Will you please pull the car ‘round?’ He glances from her to Foyle who is trying to find a dry spot on his second handkerchief. Sam follows his gaze and he sees her follow his train of thought.

‘Of course, sir. Won’t be a minute.’

Sam’s out the door before Foyle catches on. ‘Where are you going, sergeant?’ His voice is stuffy and nasal and he pauses to sneeze again when he’s finished speaking.

‘Nowhere, sir.’ Paul takes Foyle’s hat and coat off the coat rack and steps back to stand by the side of his desk.

Foyle sniffs and looks up at him. ‘What? I thought you said you weren’t going anywhere.’

 _‘I’m_ not.’ Paul holds out the hat and coat meaningfully, tilting his head slightly.

‘Sergeant Milner, I am not --’ Foyle is interrupted by another sneeze and has to bury his face in his handkerchief.

‘Yes, sir, you are.’ Paul drops the hat on the desk and puts his hand on Foyle’s shoulder. ‘You’ve had this cold for two days, it’s only getting worse, and we’re doing _filing_ here.’ He jerks his chin at the piles of papers on his desk and on the work table that he and Sam have been toiling through all day. ‘I think Sam and I can handle it.’

‘The car’s ready, Mr. Milner,’ Sam says behind him.

‘Excellent. Now --’ Paul steps back and shakes out Foyle’s coat. ‘Mr. Foyle?’

* * *

Paul finishes up the afternoon with Sam -- by the time five o’clock comes around and there’s no reason for either of them to stay any longer, the stacks of paper on the worktable have been consolidated into one and his desk is entirely clear. 

‘Do you want me to run you home, Mr. Milner?’ Sam asks, pulling her coat on and fluffing her hair out over the collar.

Paul hesitates. ‘Ah -- no. No, that’s fine.’ It still feels a little odd, almost like giving something away, to say that he lives in Foyle’s house. The lodger agreement -- which Sam knows all about, obviously -- is perfectly legal, a sound rental agreement between the two of them. And his own house is leased out for the next year but-- still.

She nods. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’ She turns back at the door to add, ‘Tell Mr. Foyle he should rest, though. Or he’ll have the whole station down.’

Paul, shrugging into his own coat, smiles at her. ‘I will.’

* * *

.

He pauses outside of the station and turns right instead of left. If he takes a slight detour, then Granny Wallace’s shop is on his way home. 

He doesn’t know why everyone calls her Granny -- she isn’t that old and she has no children or grandchildren that he knows of. She had taken over the small corner shop on her husband’s death in 1937 and, apart from a few small changes, ran it much as he had. A general selection of dry goods, beans, flour, tinned soup, soap, a few cuts of meat -- fewer these days -- in a small icebox; eggs and milk sometimes, too. She makes her own bread and sells a few loaves from Mrs. Briggs (Paul recognizes the flavor now, though he hadn’t before) and has been known to do the odd cake for a special occasion. There are usually jars of jam or preserves that Granny had made herself and, when she could get the sugar, which seems to be most of the time, there are candy and syrups. 

The local children love her because she had a fondness for experimentation with flavors and, if you aren’t too picky about the taste, she’s always looking for testers. These days, no child is really picky about taste. It’s occurred to Paul in the past that perhaps they should really be paying slightly closer attention to just where Mrs. Wallace gets her sugar -- and perhaps her bacon, butter, and cheese while they’re at it -- but there’s always something more important and she never seems to be trading on the large scale.

The light in the shop window is still on and he pushes the door open. ‘Hello?’

‘One minute!’ 

As he waits by the counter, he looks over the small loaves of bread still in the basket and selects one. There’s a tiny silky grey and brown Yorkshire terrier puppy asleep in another basket on the opposite side of the counter. It cocks an eye at him and then lifts its head; he gives it a scratch behind the ears and it pushes its little round skull against his palm.

The half door behind the counter pushes open and Granny Wallace comes through followed by a spicy/sweet smell, wiping her hands on a towel and smiling as she recognizes him. She’s a tall woman which somehow always surprises him; memories of his own gran, probably, who had been tiny, smaller than his mother. ‘Mr. Milner! What can I do for you?’ She puts down the towel and tucks a loose bit of dark hair back behind her ear. ‘Now, Church--’ She takes over the ear-scratching as Paul pulls back his hand and the puppy whines. ‘--Don’t beg.’

‘I was wondering if you had any cough sweets -- Constable Holmes was telling me how good yours were.’

‘Coming down with a cold?’ She turns to rummage on the shelves behind the till.

‘Not me -- Mr. Foyle.’

‘Ah.’ She has an old Smith’s tin in one hand and packs it full of small dark purple oblongs out of a wax-paper lined box, then taps the lid in place and slides it across the counter to him. She touches the lid with one long, thin finger. ‘Not more than two an hour, mind.’

‘Why not?’ Paul digs coins out of his trouser pocket as Mrs. Wallace pokes buttons on the till, absently tickling the puppy under the chin with her free hand.

She laughs. ‘I doubt he’ll want more than that anyway -- they’re a bit -- strong.’ She takes his handful of change, counts it out neatly, and hands him back a few coins. ‘You should take a couple yourself. Oh--’ She turns back to the shelves and comes back with a small cardboard box. ‘And take this.’

‘What is it?’ He makes a tentative gesture with a shilling and she frowns at him, so he put it back in his pocket.

She shakes open a paper bag and puts the tin of lozenges, the bread, and the small box in and pushes it across the counter to him. ‘Tea. Just herbal. It’s good for a sore throat.’

* * *

The house is quiet when he gets in, the front hall dark and no lights in the kitchen. For a minute, he hopes that perhaps he guessed wrongly. He leaves his coat on the peg and turns into the sitting room, snapping on the light and, no, of course he hadn’t guessed wrongly.

Foyle squints at him from the armchair drawn up to the fire. His feet are actually resting on the top bars of the grate and he has a book open on his knees. ‘Is it five already?’

‘Past. And why aren’t you in bed?’

Foyle shrugs and sneezes, covering his face with the back of one wrist. ‘It seemed foolish to go to bed at three in the afternoon.’

‘It was two.’

‘Oh.’ Foyle cranes up to look at the small clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Was it?’

‘It was.’ Paul elbows the kitchen door open and drops the paper bag on the table, takes out the Smith’s tin and goes back into the sitting room. ‘I got you these.’

Foyle takes the tin and squints at it in the dim light of the fire. ‘Thank you.’

‘They’re Granny Wallace’s. She just reused the tin.’ Paul kneels down on the hearthrug, giving the fire a stir with the poker. He takes it as a poor sign when Foyle doesn’t bother to argue with him about adding a log to the fire when they will probably spend no more than another hour in this room. It isn’t as though Paul insists on living in a greenhouse, but Foyle is certainly more willing to put up with lower temperatures.

‘Oh.’ Foyle sounds amused now and when Paul looks back up at him, he’s smiling, the tin open in his hands, looking at the purple lozenges.

‘Oh?’ Paul mimicks him.

‘They’re laced.’ Foyle offers the tin to him.

‘With what?’ Paul peers at them but they just look like hard candies to him.

‘Laudanum, I think. At least, that’s what they always smell like to me.’

‘Laud--’ Paul stares at him. ‘How do you know what laudanum tastes like?’

‘With age comes experience,’ Foyle says loftily, the effect only slightly ruined by a stifled cough, and pops a candy into his mouth. ‘And my gran used to dose us with a laudanum syrup when we were sick.’ He sucks thoughtfully on the one in his mouth and adds, ‘I think Mrs. Wallace must’ve found some brandy, too.’

‘I--’ Paul takes the tin out of his hands and stares at the neat rows of lozenges. ‘Er...should we--’

‘She’s been doing it for years,’ Foyle says, voice muffled by the candy. ‘And I don’t think she’s killed anyone yet.’ 

‘Where does she get it?’ Paul snaps the tin shut.

‘No idea. Perhaps she makes that, too.’

Paul thinks of the room behind the half-door and the waft of something sweet cooking that had come out behind her and laughs. A little home-brewing isn’t the worst thing happening in Hastings -- and he’d hate to have to bear the expressions of the neighborhood children if he was the one responsible for shutting down Granny Wallace’s candy-making.

* * *

After dinner, Foyle lets Paul usher him upstairs and into bed, only making a half-hearted protest that he isn’t particularly tired. Paul sees him inside the bedroom door and then goes back downstairs to see the house shut up for the night. He stokes the fire well, taking the chance with Christopher out of the room to bank up the logs well -- it’s the best heating for the bedroom they have since the chimney runs right behind the head of their bed. 

When he gets upstairs, Foyle is already propped up in bed. The lamp on his bedside table is on although he isn’t even making a pretense of reading any more. He’s leaning back against his pillows, his eyes closed, and Paul’s chest hurts for a minute at how _small_ he looks, as if being ill has somehow collapsed Christopher in on himself. He speaks without opening his eyes as soon as he hears Paul’s footsteps in the doorway. ‘You should probably sleep in the spare room if you don’t want to get sick.’

Paul closes the door behind himself. ‘With all due respect--’

Foyle snorts, then sneezes and fumbles for his handkerchief.

‘--I think it’s probably too late for that.’ He sits down on his side of the bed and reaches across to put a hand on Foyle’s chest, waiting until he emerges from the folds of his hankie before continuing. ‘And you know the spare room bed isn’t as comfortable.’

‘And I’d hate for you to be uncomfortable.’ Foyle puts a hand on top of Paul’s.

‘Should -- do you want me to call the doctor?’ Paul twines their fingers together carefully. 

Foyle shakes his head. ‘No. Let the poor man get some sleep. ‘Flu season’s bad enough as it is.’ 

Paul’s chest clenches again at the word. He’s been very carefully not thinking _influenza_ for the past two days and Foyle’s casual reference is like a strike on a bruise. He feels Foyle squeeze his hand. ‘Paul?’

He clears his throat, glances over at the windows as if checking the blackout curtain, and tries to sound casual. ‘If you think it’s ‘flu, we should really--’

‘I don’t. I think I have a cold.’ Foyle’s fingertips touch his chin gently and Paul lets himself be moved. There’s a slight wrinkle between Foyle’s eyebrows and he studies Paul’s face for a minute. 

‘My father.’ Paul pauses, clears his throat again. ‘My father and my older brother both died. In 1919.’ He barely remembers his brother; Jack had been a year older and Paul really only has a single confused recollection of putting together a jigsaw puzzle with him in the front sitting room of his parents’ house. His father had smelled of pipe smoke and wood chips; he used to bring home the odd bit of wood from the shop floor that had been accidentally cut into a shape. Paul vividly remembered one that he had carefully smoothed and painted into a Newfoundland dog and given to Alice as a Christmas present in 1918. 

Other than that, all he remembered was the smell of the cemetery at the funeral: cold, wet earth and ice-covered metal. February wasn’t the best time for funerals but they had no money to postpone it. 

‘Paul.’ Foyle squeezes his hand and Paul comes back to himself with a slight start, blinking at Foyle. The crease between Foyle’s eyebrows has deepened and he stifles a cough; he looks actually worried now and Paul wishes he could pull the words just spoken back out of the air. 

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -- it’s not important right now.’

‘I think it probably is,’ Foyle says, keeping a gentle grip on Paul’s hand when he tries to pull it away and return the evening to its planned course. 

‘Not when you’re sick,’ Paul says, standing up firmly and making his tone as definite as he can. 

* * *

Paul undresses in silence; when he glances at the bed, Foyle is frowning thoughtfully at his book. Paul closes the wardrobe, turns off the light over the dressing table, and tucks himself under the bedclothes. He turns to reach for his book, then decides against it and just switches out the light. Foyle follows suit almost immediately and the bedframe creaks slightly as they adjust. 

Paul isn’t expecting it but Foyle curls against him, sliding his arm under Paul’s neck and shifting until they’re tucked neatly together in the center of the bed. Paul hesitates for a second, then lets himself go with it; it’s what he wants, after all. Denying it would be pointless and Foyle’s proven to be very good at knowing when he’s trying. Paul tries not to make any comparison between Foyle and Jane -- but he can’t help noticing that this is one of the things Foyle never lets slide.

He turns slightly on his side and rests his head on Foyle’s shoulder, flattening the palm of his hand over the center of Foyle’s chest so he can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. The sound in his ear is a little raspy but even when Foyle coughs, there’s no wheeze, no watery rale, no rasp of labored breath, and if Foyle can tolerate the weight of him, then--

‘It’s a cold, Paul. You’ll have it next week.’ 

Paul snorts, shifting so he and Foyle are pressed together along the length of their bodies. 

It still surprises him a little that he’s gotten so comfortable -- and more than comfortable -- with this, with them together, so quickly, but he had adjusted to Foyle’s physical presence here as easily as he always had anywhere else. The differences were obvious -- and he sternly advised himself not to think about them right now; Foyle was in no state to do anything but fall asleep -- but they didn’t seem to matter so much. 

He had been a little anxious that he might be inadvertently awkward and had counselled himself firmly about the need to make sure Foyle understood clearly that Paul _wanted_ to be there, that he wasn’t being dragged or convinced or cornered. But he hadn’t had to remind himself of his good resolutions once. He still felt inclined to thank Foyle every time he turned towards Paul rather than away from him but he swallowed the impulse. 

‘And next week,’ Foyle goes on, his voice quiet in the dark room. ‘I’ll go back to Granny Wallace’s shop and ask her for some of that cough syrup everyone speaks so well of--’

‘And she has a new puppy,’ Paul says through a yawn. ‘Don’t forget to give it a pat.’

‘Of course not. Still named Winston Churchill?’

‘She called it Church.’

Foyle huffs a sound like a laugh that almost turns into a cough. ‘Every dog she’s ever had has been named that. Did anyone tell you? Her husband named the first one before he died. She’s had two or three since then -- always gets the same breed and always names them the same thing.’ Foyle sniffs, coughs, and shifts slightly, stuffing a pillow down behind his head. 

‘Do you want something for your throat?’ Paul moves to sit up, not too dozy to remember that Foyle had mentioned cough syrup.

‘No, no, I’d be asleep by the time you made anything.’ Foyle tugs him back down and Paul goes willingly. ‘I notice Mrs. Wallace sent you home with some tea, too. I’ll try some of that tomorrow.’

‘Sam says I should tell you to stay home and rest.’ Paul closes his eyes, resting his hand back on the center of Foyle’s chest. 

‘I will. I’ll have to be fit to look after you.’ Foyle presses a kiss to the top of Paul’s head.

Paul smiles into the darkness and shakes his head slightly. ‘If you insist.’

**Author's Note:**

> A multitude of thanks to my beta readers [ Elizajane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane) and [ Kivrin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kivrin) (who saved my (rationed) bacon just in the proverbial nick.)


End file.
